


Temptation Waits

by enigma731



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobbi's heard S.H.I.E.L.D.’S legends of girls like this, children molded into weapons with a perfect facade of innocence and an insatiable thirst for new things. She hasn’t heard of any surviving into adulthood, though, at least not since the days of the SSR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation Waits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> In light of recent Agent Carter episodes, I pretty much had no choice but to write this AU! I hope you enjoy it.

Given a choice between an evening gown and her tac suit, Bobbi thinks she would prefer the second tonight. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the mission, at least not in principle. Any other day she’d jump at the opportunity to spend the night in a designer dress and expensive shoes, cracking a mark’s cover rather than breaking bones. 

But if Bobbi’s being honest with herself, she’d really appreciate an assignment that allowed her to punch some people in the face right about now. Instead she’s in Houston, posing as a wealthy patron at a fundraising gala for the local ballet company. 

She takes a moment to center herself outside the doors, preparing to turn on the charm and bury deep the hurt that’s been smoldering just beneath her skin for the past two weeks. The event is being held in the dance company’s lobby, which features an uncomfortable number of floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a fairly large, open space, but as she walks in, she’s immediately surrounded by the buzz of conversation, the smell of wine and food in the air. 

Most of the people here are older, or middle-aged, but there are a few younger couples with children in frilly dresses and tiny tailored suits. Everyone seems to have family, or a partner, or at least a group of friends. That might be a complication, Bobbi thinks, as she heads for the bar, but right now it seems like an annoyance, salt in the wound that ought not to be affecting her work. She’s here on a kill mission, she reminds herself, and she is perfectly capable of making whatever small talk is necessary to accomplish that end.

The dancers are wearing pink ribbons pinned to their dresses, like they’re on display even here, still working in exchange for the donations of their patrons. Bobbi accepts a glass of red wine and takes a sip, trying to pick all of the company members out of the crowd. She hasn’t been told much about her target, S.H.I.E.L.D. being S.H.I.E.L.D. as usual, but she knows that the girl is nineteen, a petite redhead posing as a ballerina transplanted from the midwest under the name Nicole Rose. She also knows that this woman is responsible for more deaths in the past year than the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best trained team of operatives, including those of Agents Baker and Reed, the last two guys sent to take her out. 

Bobbi takes another swallow of wine and steps further into the crowd. There’s a silent auction set up along the far wall, expensive items with even more inflated prices. No point in putting much of her attention there, though, because that would place her back to the crowd. There are three women with red hair that she picks out immediately, though they’re all too far away for her to discern which one is her target. She’ll have to get closer--much closer--if she’s going to deliver the neurotoxin that’s currently stashed in her wholly impractical purse. 

She decides to head for the food, which is laid out on a buffet in the middle of the room. Though she has absolutely no interest in eating right now--never has an appetite in the field, in fact--it will provide a good vantage point, as well as something else to make herself look busy. She’s almost to the end of the line, has her tiny plate loaded with miniature quiche and Swedish meatballs, when the man in front of her decides to get friendly.

“Did you see their Romeo and Juliet?” he asks, as he snatches a napkin from the end of the buffet table. “A little too modernized for my taste, but the choreography was very good. The girls in this company definitely have excellent technique, although I wish the artistic director would leave well enough alone and keep the classics, well, _classic._ ”

“I had to miss that one,” says Bobbi, suddenly wishing she’d spent a little more time with the Houston Ballet’s online archive before coming on this assignment. Instead she had focused on visualizing her target, figuring out exactly how she’s going to get the poison-laced pen into the young dancer’s hand. It doesn’t really matter to her whether or not she’s able to impress this man, but drawing attention to herself before she’s even managed to spot her objective is a bad idea, much sloppier than her usual work.

“Oh, it was the highlight of the season,” says the man, “at least according to the reviewers, but I just can’t stand how artistic teams these days feel the need to constantly reinvent the wheel.”

Bobbi shrugs, seizing on the opportunity to let this man defend his opinion, since he seems to be enjoying the sound of his own voice. Let him argue with himself, she thinks, and she won’t have to contribute anything to this conversation, or even pay much attention. “I don’t know, sometimes it’s good to put a new shine on old gems.”

She lets the man’s words fade out as her gaze lands on the short red hair of a woman standing a few yards away, though she can hear the indignation in his tone as he launches into a critique of modern interpretations. The woman who’s caught Bobbi’s attention isn’t as diminutive as she expected, but it’s hard to tell how tall her heels might be under a floor-length black dress. She has her back to Bobbi, but she’s hanging all over a younger guy with blond curls, an arm wrapped around his neck. 

“Am I boring you?” asks Mr. Classics, jerking Bobbi’s attention back to the conversation. He’s apparently noticed that he’s been talking to himself, though she isn’t about to apologize. She’s had more than enough of men with opinions recently, and this one is irrelevant to her mission objective now.

“No,” says Bobbi, giving him a tight little smile. “I just see someone I know. If you’ll excuse me?”

The man nods, evidently deciding to find someone more willing to listen. Bobbi turns, intending to throw her mostly-untouched plate of food into the trash before approaching her mark. She makes it approximately half a step before nearly colliding with someone, some of the wine still in her glass sloshing over the rim to soak the carpet. Bobbi stops short, reeling for a moment. 

“Oh gosh, be careful you don’t fall!” chirps the woman Bobbi’s just very nearly run down, jumping in to catch her arm.

Bobbi takes a quick step backward, suddenly realizing that she’s had it wrong all along, that she’s standing face-to-face with her mark right now. Nicole Rose stands nearly a full foot shorter than Bobbi, and she’s wearing a pale pink dress that’s reminiscent of an iced cake, with delicate lines of sequins and crystal detailing, red curls falling loose down her back. The pink ribbon pinned to her bodice identifies her proudly as a member of the company, and Bobbi thinks she probably ought to have found a way to check that before assuming she’d identified the correct person in the first place. A chill runs through her at the enthusiastic smile on the girl’s face, the thought that the most successful killer she’s ever met in the field has managed to catch her off her guard. God knows how long this woman’s been eying her back, and Bobbi fights the urge to check the arm that Nicole’s touched while putting on a show of steadying her.

“I’m fine,” says Bobbi, shaking a few drops of wine off her fingers and setting her glass back on the edge of the buffet table. She can’t afford any distractions now. “I should probably tell someone I’ve made a mess of the carpet, though. Maybe you could help me?”

Nicole shakes her head, still grinning as she waves a hand at Bobbi’s concern. “Oh, don’t worry about it! Won’t be the first or last accident of the night! Housekeeping will take care of it tomorrow, I promise. Now, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” Bobbi repeats, though now she has to keep the conversation going; it’s become a game, and she isn’t about to allow this girl to win. She’s already managed to lose the upper hand by being too distracted to keep an eye on her surroundings. “I’m fine. In fact, I should probably thank you for helping me get away from that last conversation.”

Nicole laughs delicately, glancing theatrically over Bobbi’s shoulder, apparently for the man in question. “Don’t worry, he’s gone. Was he bothering you? I heard some of what he was saying, and I have to admit, it bothered me a little!”

Bobbi smiles tightly. “Were you in the Romeo and Juliet he wanted to take issue with? I’m new to town, so you’ll have to forgive me--I was just glad to find out that Houston had such an excellent arts community for me to support. Helps make the transition from New York less painful.”

Nicole’s eyes widen, the look of surprise so exaggerated it’s absurd, though Bobbi supposes it fits with the small-town girl image she’s trying to project here. “No, I’m new here too, going to be in my first production with the company next month. But you’re from New York? That must have been amazing, I’ve never even been! I was just thrilled to make the corps here, I auditioned for half a dozen companies! But you know what they say, it only takes one.”

It’s almost exhausting to keep up with the pace of her conversation, which Bobbi suspects might be part of the point. This girl is trying to draw her in with the doe-eyed innocent act, and she’s forced to admit that there’s something impossibly alluring about it. It’s hard to imagine this girl as a murderer; she finds herself beginning to doubt the S.H.I.E.L.D. file she’s been given. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d lied, she knows, wouldn’t be the first time they manipulated the information given to their operatives in order to bias the likelihood of a mission being successfully completed. Still, it’s hard to forget that two of her colleagues faced this woman and came back in body bags, impossible for her to believe Fury would truly be _that_ misleading.

“It was amazing,” says Bobbi, choosing her words carefully. “New York, I mean. Lots of art there. Always something going on, somewhere to be. Somewhere to escape, you know? If you didn’t want to be living your real life, there was always something happening that you could use as a distraction.”

“Well,” Nicole chirps, taking half a step closer and leaning in conspiratorially, “that’s the whole point of art, right? That’s what we’re all here to do, take you outside of your life and offer a more pleasant alternative.”

Bobbi laughs. “Yeah, except for when the art is more painful than real life, you mean.”

The girl’s face darkens, a sharp edge in her eyes that Bobbi can’t quite figure out how to read. “Yes, but even then, it wouldn’t be real. That’s where the magic happens--Ballet can make you feel anything you want, give you anything you want, but then when it’s over, you get to leave the theater, go back to being yourself. You get to visit another world for a while, but you don’t have to stay. The ballet is always going to end.”

Bobbi nods, supposing she shouldn’t be surprised by the depth of that answer, though she does wonder how it fits into Nicole’s calculation of this scenario. She’s showing a little of her hand, or a little of her intellect, in any case. “You’re right. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to it. My ex--My husband used to say I was addicted to fantasy. You know, thinking of myself as someone else for a while.”

Nicole nods enthusiastically. “Is that why you left?”

Bobbi blinks at her. “Is what why I left?”

“You said your ex,” Nicole tells her, looking concerned. “So--You got divorced, moved to a new city?”

“Something like that,” Bobbi answers cautiously. She hasn’t intended to give that much away, is all too aware that this conversation is turning treacherous, potentially deadly. She has to redirect quickly, get the upper hand again. “But I’m not here to talk about him tonight, you know?”

The mark--Bobbi tries to recalibrate her mind, get back on track--nods sympathetically. “I think I know exactly what you mean.”

“Every girl does, right?” says Bobbi. “But who needs them.” She offers a conspiratorial grin.

“Hey,” says Nicole, leaning in again--and this time Bobbi can practically feel the tension radiating off of her, finds herself nearly drowning in those dangerous green eyes. “You said you want to learn more about the company, right? How about a backstage tour?”

Bobbi sucks in a breath, immediately sensing the threat in that offer. Leave this room and she’ll be solidly in Nicole’s territory, with god-knows-what traps lying in wait. Nobody will think to look for her if she doesn’t come back, at least not until she fails to meet the extraction team in a few hours. She could be dead by then, could be so much worse. But there isn’t a good strategic way to refuse the offer if she wants to get closer, if she wants to accomplish her objective here. And she _wants_ to go besides, she realizes, _wants_ more of this girl’s attention despite everything. 

She nods. “That would be really great.”

Nicole doesn’t hesitate, just grabs her hand and tugs warmly, beckoning toward the doorway into the theater. Bobbi can’t deny the way her stomach dips at that, the way her pulse quickens. She’s always enjoyed the thrill of the cat and mouse game, though she has to admit that right now she isn’t sure which role she’s playing.

“This is our performance space,” says Nicole, still all wide eyes and breathless enthusiasm. “But it’s empty right now, so that’s not very exciting unless you want to try the chairs. I think they’re pretty comfortable, but I might be biased! My studio back home only had folding chairs, and nobody wants to spend a full show sitting in one of those!”

“Where are you from?” asks Bobbi, wondering whether she can poke a hole in the cover. She still can’t get a read, can’t discern whether Nicole knows exactly what game she’s playing or if she’s simply looking for any wealthy patron to seduce. The seed of doubt is still there, still niggling at the back of her mind.

Nicole laughs. “Tiny little town in Indiana. Nobody’s ever heard of it.”

Bobbi decides to let that one go, though she counts it mentally as a victory. It’s time to keep pushing, she thinks, if she’s going to maintain any sort of edge. She needs to take advantage of being away from the crowd, having her target’s undivided attention.

“Well,” she offers, like this whole evening might be a particularly delicious secret between them. “You might have just moved here from Nowhere, Indiana, but I’m willing to bet you’re about to make it big. Think I could get an autograph?” She digs the weaponized pen out of her bag, careful to avoid the microinjector in the cap. If she’s lucky, Nicole will take it, will brush the tiny spines. She won’t feel it yet, won’t know anything’s wrong until hours later when the toxin kicks in.

“Oh gosh, yes,” she agrees. “I thought you’d never ask!” She takes the pen between two fingers, and it’s all Bobbi can do not to keep her gaze locked tight on it. “Let me show you the dressing room, I’ve got some extra head shots there.”

Bobbi follows her up onto the stage and then back into the wings, fighting to keep her bearings as the lighting gets dimmer. The next thing she’s aware of is a door swinging open, the citrusy scent of hairspray and the dim outline of her reflection in the mirror. Then there’s an explosion of movement, a knee to her side catching her unprepared and knocking the wind from her lungs. Bobbi throws a kick blindly as her vision swims, finds nothing but thin air. She stumbles backward as she tries to regain her balance, instead finds her shoulder blades hitting a solid wall. She doesn’t have time to react to that, is still reeling when she feels the cold kiss of metal around her wrist, realizes that she’s trapped. Things go still for a moment after that, and when she can see clearly again, Bobbi realizes that her mark has her shackled to the practice barre the company must use for backstage warm-ups, is currently regarding her with the ghost of a predatory smile.

“You’re S.H.I.E.L.D.,” the girl breathes, and now Bobbi can hear how surprisingly deep her voice is, like thick smoke. There’s the barest hint of an accent there now too, less the pronunciation than the prosody, the rhythm of her speech.

“And you’re not a dancer,” says Bobbi, deciding that her current predicament doesn’t mean she can’t still play this game of wits.

The mark laughs. “I am, actually. I never said what else I was or wasn’t.”

“You’re good,” says Bobbi, watching her. “A few times there, I almost believed you.”

“You’ve been better,” the girl answers, the certainty of that statement sending a fresh chill through Bobbi. “Tonight you’re off your game.”

Bobbi sets her jaw, refuses to ask the question that’s expected of her. She isn’t ready to admit defeat yet, thinks this still isn’t the worst situation she’s ever worked her way out of. She especially isn’t going to give Hunter the satisfaction of proving she can’t stay alive on her own. 

The mark watches her for a long moment, then shrugs. She takes a pair of tweezers from the surface of the vanity across from the barre and uses them to retrieve the pen, which has fallen to the floor. She meets Bobbi’s eyes for another instant, then drags the top of the pen across a piece of tissue, examining the miniscule traces of fluid left behind.

“Poison, I assume?”

Bobbi sucks in a slow breath, silently thanking whatever deity might be looking down on the science division that she’s only come armed with a single dose. The weapon can’t be turned on her now that it’s been harmlessly discharged. She nods, deciding to try honesty. “Virus, actually. A non-pathogenic strain that just happens to produce a very potent neurotoxin as a byproduct of its life cycle. It multiplies after entering the bloodstream, causes death in a few hours.”

The girl nods. “Impressive. And I assume it destabilizes when exposed to air?”

“Exactly,” says Bobbi, giving her a smug little smile, though she’s certain this girl will have other weapons in her arsenal, won’t have counted on commandeered enemy tech. She’s too good for that. “Rapidly-drying solution causes the vector to die in less than ninety seconds if not successfully injected. I designed it myself.”

The mark--her captor now, Bobbi supposes--snorts softly, almost amused. “Very impressive. I could do a lot with tech like this.”

“You’re Russian,” says Bobbi, as the real story begins to materialize--the barely-there accent, the choice to pose as a ballerina. She curses Coulson silently for omitting this piece of information from her briefing, sending her into this all but blind. She’s heard S.H.I.E.L.D.’S legends of girls like this, children molded into weapons with a perfect facade of innocence and an insatiable thirst for new things. She hasn’t heard of any surviving into adulthood, though, at least not since the days of the SSR. “Red Room?”

“Once,” the girl allows, though it’s clear that’s not the end of the story.

“What’s your name?” asks Bobbi, wondering whether there’s any sort of a whole person standing in front of her, whether there’s anything besides survival and objective. “Your real name.”

“My friends call me Natasha,” she answers, though there’s still something missing.

Bobbi raises an eyebrow. “Friends?”

Something passes over the girl’s face, not quite a shudder. She inclines her head, half a nod of acknowledgement. “ _I_ call myself Natasha.”

“And what are you, Natasha?” asks Bobbi, meeting her eyes carefully, as if she isn’t still a captive, isn’t fighting for her life. 

“A free agent,” she answers flatly, an odd sort of resignation in her tone.

“With a target on your back,” says Bobbi.

Natasha shrugs. “Isn’t that always the case?” 

“Maybe,” Bobbi agrees, watching the way the girl in front of her is changing. She looks younger, somehow, though it’s a sort of vulnerability that’s distinct from the wide-eyed ingénue Bobbi met earlier. “But if S.H.I.E.L.D.’s after you, I’d bet we’re not the only ones. And I’d also bet you know that.”

Natasha remains silent at that, though Bobbi doesn’t miss the subtle shift in her posture, the instinct that pushes her just a little closer to a defensive stance.

“You’re not here on a job,” Bobbi guesses. “And you’re not here because you want to be here, either. You’re hiding. Have you ever been a free agent, _really_? Or have you spent all of your time running?”

Natasha considers, apparently still not ready to crack. “I choose my employers.”

“Maybe,” says Bobbi. “But is that all it means to be free? Look at you. You aren’t just good, you’re _fantastic_. Every bit of you is _dying_ to be a star, and yet here you are. Posing as a girl from Nowheresville. Stuck in the corps when you’re better than the entire company. Taking mercenary jobs for the highest bidder. Anything to get by, keep yourself from attracting too much attention.”

“And what’s your angle?” asks Natasha, the edge in her voice telling Bobbi that she’s struck a nerve. “You going to suggest that letting you put a bullet in my head would be doing me a favor? Because I’ve heard that one, honey, and I’m not about to buy it. Don’t be so quick to forget where you’re standing.”

“No,” Bobbi answers carefully. There’s a plan coming together in her head now, the piece she’s been missing all night suddenly snapping into place. “You want freedom? Come work for S.H.I.E.L.D.” She holds up a hand against the instant protest she knows is coming. “I know it sounds backward. But--Freedom is about tradeoffs, you know? You try to make a living on your own, it costs you time. Your safety. And your identity.”

Natasha remains silent for another moment, long enough that Bobbi’s about given up on any sort of a response when she nods, just once.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has rules,” says Bobbi, letting the truth show on her face, in her eyes, letting it color the sound of her voice. “You won't like all of them. But they'll protect you. They'll give you a place to stay. A place where you could be someone else. Someone you _chose_ , not just out of necessity.”

“Someone like you?” Natasha sets the pen down, crosses her arms.

Bobbi considers, unsure what the right answer is here. “Someone real,” she says finally, though she’s not certain how true to that she’s been lately. “Someone with a purpose other than survival.”

“And how do I know they wouldn’t just have you bring me in and then kill me on their terms?” asks Natasha, though something’s begun to shift in the air between them. 

Bobbi is convinced that she’s not wrong. “You don’t. It’s a calculated risk. Isn’t that the currency you deal in?”

Natasha pauses for one more moment of thought, then moves in a rush, the shackles unlocked before Bobbi’s even registered what’s happened. She blinks, half expecting another surprise, another trap. It all feels too easy, her heart thundering against her sternum as the adrenaline of it all begins to catch up with her.

“Really?” she asks, though she thinks she ought to know better.

Natasha still has the metal hinge of the shackles in one hand, keeps her gaze locked on the shiny surface for a moment like she might be contemplating something broken in her reflection. She sets them down on the vanity finally, with a weighty thump. “I’m not sure I believe true freedom is a thing that exists. But you could say that I’ve learned to appreciate new opportunities.”

She nods, then pauses, offering a hand. “Bobbi Morse.”

Natasha returns a firm shake, her expression turning smug. “I know.”

“My colleagues will be arriving soon,” says Bobbi, deciding to let that go for now. “Show me the back way out of here?”

Following Natasha through the stage door, Bobbi feels as though she’s still off-balance, as though she really has found herself in a new sort of world. This dance, she thinks, won’t be ending anytime soon.


End file.
